


Now 'Tis Buried Deep

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: Julian Kestrel - Ross
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was ironic at this juncture to discover what a Kestrel he was.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now 'Tis Buried Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lareinenoire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Julian Kestrel belongs to Kate Ross and her heirs, and to Penguin Books. This story was written with nothing but love and respect for the books and their author.
> 
> Beta thanks to Marna, Iulia, and Miss Molly Etc!
> 
> This story was written for Yuletide 2008 and first appeared December 25, 2008.

He arrived in a nicely anonymous hack, and did not give his name, merely mentioned that he was expected; it was just possible that this meeting would not become below-stairs gossip by nightfall. The butler gave him a critical look, but nodded and said, "Of course. This way."

Julian looked about discreetly, but his study of the house and its furnishings as he was led to the master's study told him little. It was not that there was nothing to see, but rather that Julian could not settle himself in any one vantage point from which to see it; should he compare this gentleman's town house to the lush opulence of Milanese nobility, or to his own newly-let lodgings, still almost bare of furnishings?

Nothing was shabby here, nor glaringly unfashionable, though neither was there any sense that the occupants of this house made any special effort to keep up to the moment. The style was austere by Milanese standards, but not excessively so by English lights. It showed more attention to the owner's comfort and preferences, within the bounds of good taste, than any eagerness to please a visitor. Julian could rather have liked it.

He compared it to the threadbare gentility of his childhood, and hardened his heart.

"Sir," the butler intoned, arriving in the doorway. "The young man you were expecting."

Julian noted the signs of deference he had not received--_young man_ rather than _gentleman_ was surely a calculated choice, based on more than his youth. Despite his elegant clothes and faultless deportment, Julian had to consider that the butler was likely quite correct in his estimation. Still, Julian had little time to dwell on that before he stepped into the study and came face to face with the man he had come to see.

The master of the house looked a little taken aback at Julian's appearance, but then Julian was taken aback himself. Apparently he would need to offer no proofs of his parentage after all.

There had never been anyone to tell him how much he favored his father. His Uncle Wallace had, in fact, been particularly fond of pointing out all the many ways Julian resembled his mother and was sure to take after her. It was ironic at this juncture to discover what a Kestrel he was. He felt a moment's impulse to flee, as though he were about to be exposed as some sort of fraud--but a fraud was, perhaps for the first time in years, just what he was not. There was much to condemn what he was about to do, but it would not require him to lie.

Sir George Kestrel waved him toward a seat, more imperious than graceful, and said, "Julian, isn't it, after your mother? I thought it must be you. Will you take anything to drink?"

Julian let his face show nothing as he shook his head in a terse negative, moving smoothly to take the indicated seat. Sir George's words conveyed a great deal of information, and answered nearly all of Julian's questions. Yes, his father's brother had known of him, known his name and his mother's name, and still had done nothing. He had cared no more than to suspect that he might be the mysterious young man writing about family concerns.

"Julian Kestrel, sir," Julian corrected him, forbearing to lay the stress on his surname. He was younger and poorer than his host, but he was not a servant or a child to be addressed by his bare name.

"Oh, yes, certainly." Sir George acquiesced to this with a fly-swatting gesture, settling into his own chair. "If there had been any doubt of that, things might not have gone so badly between your father and mine."

If there had been any doubt that his parents' marriage had been legitimate, Julian understood. If there had been any possibility that Julian was a mere bastard to be swept under the familial rug.

"You've recently come of age, have you not?" Sir George inquired, all politeness.

"Yes indeed," Julian said, equally correct. "I had my twenty-first birthday this past winter."

He had come of age then in all respects; the comte had demanded to be called Armand, and had kindly but firmly pushed Julian out into the world, sending him to Italy to learn what it would teach him. Julian thought even the comte, experienced as he was, had not expected Julian's lessons to take the form they did.

"I thought that was it," Sir George agreed comfortably. "My eldest son was born just a year before."

A silence fell, while Julian did not ask after the health of his father's brother's son, who might have been his close companion in another life, and had grown up with all the comforts and advantages he had lacked. Sir George, reciprocally, did not ask after the health of Julian's parents, who lay serenely in cheap coffins, in a rundown churchyard not so very far from here, if the distance were measured only in miles. He likewise did not ask after the health of Julian's younger siblings, who had never chanced to be born, nor of any common acquaintance they might have, who Julian had never met.

Julian was aware that he was being ungracious; he ought to have asked, ought to paper over the chasm between them, wide as his entire life, with proper small talk. But the point of graciousness was to set people at ease, and he had no impulse to do that here, though he knew mere moments of social silence would not be enough to discompose a man who had held his tongue for years while his brother died a pauper. No matter; Julian had come better armed than that.

"Got yourself into some trouble, I suppose," Sir George surmised, studying Julian with a shrewd expression that made him feel suddenly twelve years old. It was his father's expression in a stranger's face, and for a treacherous moment, despite everything, he wanted to trust the man for the glimpse of Julian's father within him. He wanted to say that yes, yes, he'd got himself into quite a lot of trouble, with false names and Carbonari and daring exploits that came off well but still left him frightened to go home to the comte, for love of whom he had risked all.

But this man was not his father; he was an enemy the more dangerous for Julian's impulse to trust him.

"I might be able to do something for you," he went on, in a wary, speculative tone Julian had never heard his father direct at anyone, even people who had deserved it nearly as much as Julian did at this moment. "Perhaps help you to some position in the City."

Julian raised an eyebrow, and brushed minutely at the flawless knee of his trousers. He had attired himself as a gentleman for this meeting; Sir George could not but be aware of the implication. The insult was intentional, and Julian found himself far more nettled by it than he ought to allow himself to be--he who had been Orfeo, who could have sung for kings and turned the heads and hearts of jaded connoisseurs, _he_...

"No," Julian said, mastering himself. He was Julian Kestrel now, not a whit more nor less. "I am not made to be a clerk, sir. I am a gentleman's son, and I mean to live as one."

Sir George gave him a wry smile--nothing quite so vulgar as a smirk--and Julian went on with the words he had so carefully rehearsed, controlling his breathing as if for an aria, to speak as though he were unconcerned, as if he were not aware of teetering on a very narrow precipice with dishonor on all sides.

"Naturally if I have not sufficient capital I will be required to support myself. I have been living on the Continent these five years past, and received professional training."

Sir George's face underwent a series of fascinating transformations, and Julian gave himself a few seconds watching the man hang fire before he added, "As an opera singer. I seem to have inherited some of my mother's talents. My voice was considered exceptional, and standards are quite high in Italy."

Sir George turned pale, and Julian knew he was plunged off the precipice and gaining speed--to so underhandedly threaten a man, to use his own gift for such shameful purpose. But Sir George--his father's own elder brother--had let Julian's father die overworked and fearful for Julian's future. Julian knew what he had to do, and his voice was a perfectly modulated drawl as he twisted the knife, feeling himself sink still further as he did.

"Of course it's uncertain work; a man can never be sure of his fortunes. But if I were able to secure a patron who would support my... artistic endeavors, as I did on the Continent, I could likely be assured a comfortable livelihood."

Sir George had achieved a shade of puce that clashed badly with his clothes and the décor of his study, and a look of disgust that nearly matched Julian's own opinion of himself at this moment.

"A man in such a precarious position would unfortunately not have the freedom to avoid answering questions about his family connections," Julian added, and it was this which finally pushed Sir George beyond endurance.

He jumped to his feet, and for a single crystalline instant, Julian wondered if the man would strike him, or demand satisfaction. But then Sir George turned away, stalking across the study to a desk which bore assorted tidy stacks of papers and a ledger book. Sir George sorted through some things, took out a pen, and wrote some few words, all in an oppressive silence.

Julian waited, still controlling his breathing. The rests were as important as the notes; timing was all. The thing was nearly done, now.

Sir George strode stiff-legged over to Julian and thrust the bank draft under his nose. "Take what you came for, and get out."

Julian thought better of thanking him, or saying anything at all. He had what he had come for, indeed; best to depart the field with grace and his shirtfront unbloodied. He inclined his head slightly once he had come to his feet, took the draft from Sir George's hand, and turned his back--no matter how it rankled to turn his back on a man who must surely, now, be considered his unwavering enemy.

He had nearly gained the doorway when Sir George said sharply, "Julian."

Julian hesitated an instant, only long enough to school his features to blankness--he could not help bristling at the insult, however deserved--and then turned back to face Sir George.

"Let me be rightly understood," he said, staring at Julian out of his father's eyes, full of a cold fury Julian had never seen there. "Richard was my younger brother, and I was responsible for him. I was the one who introduced him to the damned theatre when he was allowed to come to Town. He was a fool, but he was proud--too proud to beg forgiveness for making a disastrous marriage, and too proud to permit me to help him quietly, even for your sake."

Julian kept his face utterly blank. There was no question of it being anything but the truth, but it was a bitter pill to swallow, now that his work here was done.

"What I've given you because you demanded it in the vilest possible terms, I would have given your father had he allowed me. And had he even a trace of his father's decency, I would have liked to give it to my nephew someday."

Sir George looked away, and his voice was more weary than angry. Julian could read disappointment there if he allowed himself such fancies, even grief. "You are not welcome in this house; if we should ever have the misfortune to encounter one another, I trust you will remember that we have never been introduced and share no connection whatsoever. And if you should find you require more than that to keep yourself in style..."

Julian dug his fingernails into his palm and waited without flinching; Sir George seemed to share his own appreciation of timing.

"You can bloody well _sing_ for it, Julian Kestrel, and reflect as badly as you please on your parentage."

Julian's fist tightened spasmodically. He swept his most theatrical bow, and removed himself from the stage before he could be dragged off.

Once outside the townhouse, Julian returned to the hack--as he had expected, the interview had been brief, though he felt as if he had performed an entire opera himself.

Hidden from all prying eyes, any sound he might have made covered by the rattling of the carriage, Julian closed his eyes and let his breath run ragged and shallow.

He had steeled himself for this task; he had brooded upon the damage he did to his own precious honor, the way he would slander himself. He had not contemplated what else it might cost him; indeed, he had not imagined that he had anything else in the world which he might possibly lose.

_Nephew_, he had said, but only when it was too late, when all such possibility was extinguished.

Julian's breathing steadied, and he came back to himself as he must, and finally examined the bank draft in some curiosity. Sir George had given him far more than he'd expected; he had not factored any chance of generosity into his speculations. But there, it was done now; he had crossed the Rubicon, returned to his own city in such state that he must triumph or perish in the attempt. Crossed the Rubicon and salted Carthage in a single day's muddled metaphor; the comte would have laughed, and spent an hour helping him to fix in his mind all the history that ran between the two. But he--even he, who had done so much else for Julian--though he might repair the deficits of Julian's education, could not repair this. No one could, which was exactly as Julian had intended.

No matter what he did now, the Kestrel family would not claim him as their own--and so he would never be tempted to let them. He might betray decency and his own honor, he might wound a man who could have loved him, but he would not betray his father's memory by forgiving what the Kestrels had done.

Julian considered the money for another moment; he had not planned, beforehand, what to do with it. The money was only an instrument, an obstacle of honor to place between himself and his father's family.

He'd have to give it away, he supposed, if he wanted to be able to live with himself at all. The comte's legacy would keep him well enough, even living on his own in London. No matter what had happened today, he would never have any excuse to sing in public, ever again--not now that he had chosen to return to London and his own name.

Still, Julian thought, studying the bank draft, he was not a saint, not even Robin Hood. Perhaps he would use some of it to buy a pianoforte; his father's brother would return to him what his mother's brother had taken away, to send him running from London in the first place. That seemed only fair.


End file.
